


Whiskey from a Bottle of Wine

by romanticalgirl



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somebody's gonna come undone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey from a Bottle of Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to inlovewithnight for the beta and encouragement. This is for her. She's nice enough to share.
> 
> Originally posted 11-17-07

It’s the wrong kind of night in November, when everyone’s too cold on the outside and too hot on the inside, and the club is filled with smoke from whatever they’re lighting up. Dane’s on the stage and John’s on the side, and they share the same look they always share halfway through the show. Dane is shirtless, covered in sweat, and he can feel the rough calluses as he slides his fingers down the neck, grinning his way through a lousy rendition of the Eagles “Heartache Tonight”. 

The bar is hopping; plenty of booze and other substances keeping the mood as high as the patrons, and he’s feeling the buzz in the air. It’s their fourth night on this god-forsaken tour of the eastern seaboard, and he’s pretty sure they’re in Poughkeepsie, though that might just be from Jackson and Rat fucking giggling the name like schoolgirls in the van for four fucking hours. John had ended it eventually, with a well-placed jab to Rat’s favorite anatomical part, but the name had stuck and Dane can’t help but smile wider.

Something catches his eye to the left of the stage and he turns his attention to the flash. It’s like a shadow brushing the edge of his vision, and he glances toward it, nearly missing his solo when he sees her.

Her hair is black and bright all at once, hanging down to the middle of her back. She’s got it in a plait that hangs there and even before he sees the rest of her, all he can think about is wrapping the braid around his hand. She meets his eyes and he groans under his breath. They’re green and sharp and knowing, and she looks at him like she’s got a secret. Dane’s a master of secrets, and he doesn’t look away as he moves over to the mike, chiming in on vocals as they end the song and the set and Layla thanks the crowd and threatens that they’ll be back in fifteen.

The rest of her is worth looking at – jeans that hug all her curves, and she’s got plenty, and a buttoned shirt with short sleeves in a hideous shade of purple. She’s smiling still as he sets the guitar on stand, grabbing his shirt off the floor and wiping his face with it, running it through his short hair. He nods to John, ignoring the knowing grin he’s wearing, and then moves to the edge of the stage, squatting down to look her in the eye.

“Hello, darlin’.”

“Darling?”

“Well now,” he drawls the words out, using his Texas accent like a caress, “I’m sorry if I offended you with that, ma’am, but in Texas, that’s bein’ polite.”

“Well, Texas, I’m a little young to be a ma’am.”

“I tried to call you darlin’.” He reaches out, his fingers catching one of the dark wisps of hair that frame her face. “You didn’t seem to like that.”

She looks at him with those eyes and shakes her head. “You can call me Gail.”

Dane gets to his feet and smiles down at her before heading over to John. “No. I don’t think I can do that at all.”

**

She’s still around after the last set, still on the edge of the stage. Jackson and Rat have picked up on her presence and have been playing up to her all night. She’s smiled at them, but her eyes stay on Dane. He’s wondering if she lives nearby because it’s his turn to share the room with Rat, and there’s no way he’ll have respect or courtesy enough to leave them alone. 

He packs away his guitars and slides the cases towards John. John’s officially their manager, but mostly he just hauls shit around like the rest of them. He just gets paid more doing it. Dane imagines he’s probably fucking Layla as well, but he doesn’t ask and John’s always in the room by the time Dane wakes up when they’re fortunate enough not to end up with Rat or Jackson. John picks up both cases then glances toward the bar. There are still a few hours to go before last call, and there’s a post-set ritual that involves tequila and fire. Dane nods then looks over at her.

She’s facing away from him, talking with some other girls now that the music’s not drowning everything else out. He stares at the line of her hair for a moment then shakes his head, tugging his shirt on to block her from his vision. He grabs the stands and one of the amps, hauling it all off the stage and into the small room behind it where they’re storing their stuff for the long weekend they’re stuck here. 

“We’re in Poughkeepsie, right?” He asks John as he sets the equipment down, packing it neatly. One of the many things he likes about John is the fact that he respects music a hell of a lot more than half the people who make it. 

“Yup.” John’s accent is nearly negligible, the same as Dane’s when they’re not both playing it up. Dumb, good old boys looking for a good old time is their usual modus operandi, but tonight feels different. “Here all week. Enjoy the veal.”

“Could leave this until later.”

“We could,” John agrees, straightening and dusting his hands on his pants as he does. “But later you’ll be with the brunette, Rat and Jackson will be drunk, Layla will be on the bar getting whiskey poured down her throat by the three guys who were staring at her tits all night, and yours truly will end up packing all this shit up alone.”

“You’ll be fucking the blonde waitress that slipped a tip in your waistband.”

John laughs. “If I’m lucky.” He glances over his shoulder at the stage. “Fuck it. Let’s hit the bar.”

Dane smiles and nods, following John to the bar. The rest of the band is gathered around, the bottle of tequila already half emptied into beer glasses. Layla lights the match and drops it in her glass, letting it burn as the rest of them down their own glasses, Layla drinking straight from the bottle. The flames glow blue for a moment, flashing bright until the bartender extinguishes the thing, cussing at them about fire codes and who the fuck do they think they are. Layla shifts closer, her breasts on impressive display, and the rest of them back off. Rat and Jackson steal the bottle and John rolls his eyes, moving back toward the stage.

Dane looks for her.

He recognizes trouble when he sees it. He’s been trouble for plenty of women and a few men in his time, and it’s not hard to see the signs. He knows she spells trouble the way no other woman ever has for him, simply because most of the time he’s more than happy to love ‘em or leave ‘em. Tonight, he has no intention of leaving.

“So, besides bad Eagles covers and bad Springsteen covers, what do you play?”

“Bad Joan Jett covers when Layla’s feeling feisty.” He turns and smiles at her. She’s shorter than him, but he’s used to that. She looks like she’d fit well into his hands, though, and he can feel them itching to see, to curve around her breasts, to cup her ass. “If I’m feeling romantic, I like to play a little Bon Jovi.”

“Wow. Quite the oeuvre.” She laughs as Bon Jovi comes on the jukebox, her eyes as bright as her smile. “Let me guess, you pay someone to do that for you.”

“I couldn’t pay someone to play Bon Jovi. Goes against everything I stand for in life.” He catches her hand in his and pulls her closer, sliding his other hand around her waist. They move together like they’re made for it, bodies fitting together despite the differences in height. Her hair smells like smoke and apples and vanilla and he closes his eyes, swaying slowly, not even really dancing. “You here with friends?”

“I’m here alone.”

He shakes his head, his voice rumbling low in his throat, deep in his chest. “Not anymore.”

**

They stumble into her house, her walking backwards as he strips off her leather jacket. Her hands are beneath his shirt, working at tugging it over his head, and he can’t stop kissing her. He pops two buttons in his haste to get her shirt off, swearing between kisses that he’ll sew them back on. She laughs, which is his favorite thing about having sex, and he murmurs a quick “fuck it” against her mouth and lifts her up and carries her through the house. 

She directs him, her legs wrapping around his waist. He can feel heat even through their jeans and he’s not sure if it’s how much he wants her, how much she wants him or the friction damn near setting them on fire, but it burns in the best way possible. He kicks open the bedroom door and tumbles her onto the bed, kneeling on the edge so he can brace himself over her. In the shaft of moonlight from the window, her lips are swollen and a ghostly pink, but her tongue is red as it darts out of her mouth. He groans and kisses her again, stealing her tongue into his mouth and sucking hard at it until she arches up into him, matching the hot, low sound with one of her own.

He thrusts down against her and bites her lower lip, sucking on it as he pulls back. They’re both breathless and her shirt’s lying open, exposing the black lace of her bra. He bends his head and swipes his tongue across the pale flesh above it, tasting the shiver of her skin. She breaks the contact just long enough to tug his t-shirt off of him, tossing it to the side before sliding her hands down his chest. Her palms rasp against the hair, her thumbnails teasing over his nipples, catching on the hardened skin.

Dane hisses, his breath catching as he pulls back just enough to get his hand between them, unfasten her jeans. Gail arches up against his hand, her lips parting on a soft whimper. He pulls back further, bring her with him so he can strip her shirt away. She arches her back this time, her breasts brushing his bare chest. “Jesus,” he breathes, bending to catch her mouth in another kiss, his hands sliding up her back to the catch of her bra, unfastening it and easing it off her shoulders with a kind of reverence.

“I won’t break,” she teases him, her voice thick.

“Not about to take that chance. Not yet.” He laughs and kisses her again, tasting all the warm sensations – beer and tequila and smoke and something he’s certain is just her. She wriggles slightly against him, letting her bra slide down her arms and then tossing it aside as easily as she did his shirt. There’s an endless second before she’s back against him, and instead of the silky roughness of the lace, all he can feel is her skin. 

He eases her back onto the bed and kisses his way down her body, spending time tracing the smooth line of her neck before he nibbles her collarbone. She laughs as his hands skim her sides, twisting away from the light touch. Her movement causes her breasts to brush against him, her nipples hard against his skin. 

“Dane…”

He laughs against her skin, the sound both promise and delight as he makes his way down, gathering both breasts in his hands, bending his head to flick his tongue across one of the nipples. 

“Oh…” She arches more, her nails sketching patterns on his upper arms, scraping his skin as he catches the flesh between his teeth, bathing it with his tongue. She shudders and her nails dig into his skin. He thrusts down, body colliding with hers, the smooth slide of denim on denim making his dick even harder. He huffs a breath through his nose and then moves to her other breast, his fingers teasing and pinching the wet nipple left in his wake. 

He rakes his teeth over her breast, and he’s pretty sure her nails break the skin on his back if the sharp pain is any indication, but the vice of her thighs wrapping around him to hold him in place makes up for it. She rocks against him, thrusting upwards, digging her heels into his ass for leverage. He shakes his head and feathers kisses below her breasts, down her stomach. He reaches back to unhook her crossed ankles and moves lower still. He leaves a trail of red marks that fade quickly on her stomach, circling her navel with his tongue.

She laughs softly, the sound melting into something closer to a gasp when he slips his fingers under the waistband of her jeans, tugging on the fabric until her hips rise off the bed. He guides them down, nuzzling the flat plane of skin just above the low-cut top of her panties. “I want you.”

He returns the laugh, his voice rougher and thick. “I know that, darlin’.”

“Then do something about it.”

“I intend to.” He finishes with her jeans and lowers his mouth to the wet fabric of her panties, licking the fabric. “All in good time.” She starts to protest, but he stops the sound by sliding his fingers beneath the material and brushing the wet skin surrounding her clit. “All in good time.”

“Dane.” She moves her heels to the mattress and digs in, lifting her body off the bed and offering herself up to him. He takes the invitation, uncertain he has the strength not to. Her panties join the rest of her clothes and his shirt on the floor and he settles easily between her thighs, blowing a stream of warm air over the flushed skin. “Oh…come on.” She half laughs and half groans as he follows the breath with his tongue, tracing the edge of her skin. “Dane.”

“Hush,” he tells her quietly, sliding his hands under her ass and moving closer still, his tongue parting her flesh and finding the hard nub of her clit. Her breath shudders out of her and he huffs another breath. She arches up higher and he slides his hand off her ass, teasing along her skin before his fingers push inside her.

“O-oh, God.” She thrusts down against him, taking both fingers deep. Her leg curves around his back again, this time her heel tracing a hard line along his spine as his tongue and fingers work in unison. It doesn’t take her too long to come, three fingers thrusting deep and his tongue relentless against her clit. Her other leg wraps around him as well, only her shoulders and the back of her head against the bed as he keeps thrusting, his only concession to the moment in easing his tongue off her clit and sliding it down to taste the wet heat of her as her body tightens around his fingers.

When he eases away, her eyes are closed and her chest is heaving, rising and falling with the rapid beat of her heart. She looks wanton and gorgeous and it takes him a minute to remember his own rapid pulse throbbing hard at the base of his cock. He unfastens his jeans with a sigh of relief. His boxer-briefs are wet and he shivers in the heated air as he eases them over his cock, shoving them down to the floor as well. He’s perfected the art of getting out of his cowboy boots, and this time is no different, though she laughs a little as she watches, the sound breathless with anticipation.

“You fuck girls with ‘em on?”

“Never on the first date.”

She shifts back onto the bed, splaying across the faded floral patterned comforter. She looks like sin served up for lunch at Grandma’s on Sunday after church and his dick gives a hard jerk as he looks at her. “What if it’s the only date?”

“Then they weren’t worth fucking with my boots on.” He grabs the condom and puts it on, feeling her eyes on him the entire time. She’s probably on the pill, but he’s on the road enough not to take a single chance, so he does his part and then climbs up the bed toward her. “Few women are.”

“Am I?”

He pushes inside her easily, taking it as slow as the insistent throb of his cock will allow. He doesn’t answer her. 

Not in words.

**

Her name is Gail, but he calls her Angel.

She watches him move around her little house, completely out of place. Most of the time he just wears his boxers or his jeans or sometimes he’ll throw on her frilly yellow robe and quote Bull Durham. She brought him home Thursday night, and now it’s Sunday and the only time he’s been gone has been for practice and set up and their performances. She’s been at all of them, and he’d asked her about calling in sick, laughing and promising he didn’t have anything communicable, but she’d shut him up with a hard kiss before sliding down on him, riding him slowly.

His band mates look at her like she’s something from another planet, and she hears Rat and Jackson whispering, wondering what kind of magical cunt she’s got to tame the wild man. She ignores them and watches Layla and John, deciding Dane’s right about them – they’re totally fucking – and knowing that if she has to win anyone over, it’s going to be them. Not that she wants to win over his friends. She’s not stupid enough to think that this is going to be anything.

“Angel, you look like you’re thinkin’ too hard.” He hasn’t dropped the drawl, though she knows it’s more for show than anything. She’s heard him whisper in the middle of everything, and there’s nothing but the low rumble of his voice. He comes up behind her chair and leans down, tilting her head back and kissing her. She hasn’t been touched this much in ages, hasn’t been handled like something precious in forever. He treats her like she’s china when they’re not in bed, and sometimes when they are, though last night he’d wrapped her braid around his hand and taken her from behind. She still aches at the base of her skull and between her legs, but she can’t help wondering if he’ll do it again tonight.

Especially since he’s leaving tomorrow morning.

“Where’s the next stop on your world tour?” She curves her hands around the back of his neck and holds him there, neither of them completely comfortable in their positions, but neither of them moving. 

“Somewhere in Maine. Podunk, Maine? Passadumkeag? John knows the names. I just get on the stage.” 

“You’re going to forget all about Poughkeepsie with a name like Passadumkeag.” She kisses him again, parting his lips with a swipe of her tongue. “Did John just pick every funny sounding town that started with a P?”

“Probably. Sounds like something the fucker would do.” He releases her and walks around, straddling her on the chair and kissing her properly. She slides her hands up his thighs, feeling the muscles flex beneath her fingers and she wonders what he’d do if she sank down to her knees and took him in her mouth. He’s kept her writing on the bed in pleasure so much of the time, that she’s barely had a taste of him, and she wants it, wants to have it to remember when he leaves.

“You’ll probably find some other girl there, right? One in every town?” 

Something in his face darkens and she remembers the first moment she saw him. He’s got an element of danger about him, and it sends a shiver of fear and arousal up her spine every time it shows, his smile even more so than his frown. “That what you think, Angel?”

She shakes her head, even though she suspects that, until this moment, it was absolutely true. “Where are you going to find someone better than me?”

He kisses her again, and that threat of violence is there in his kiss, deep and hot and hard. She breaks it just to see what he’ll do, pushing him back so he stumbles against the table. Fire flashes in his eyes as she stands up and walks toward him, sliding the zipper of his unbuttoned jeans down, smiling at his lack of anything underneath them. It’s strange to not be afraid, because she knows he should be frightening – tall and broad and quiet and menacing, dark tattoos on his back and arms – but there’s also something about him that reassures her that he’d sooner hurt himself than hurt her. 

“Going to suck you off, Dane.” She shoves his jeans down, her own violence in the gesture. He growls low in his throat as she rakes her nails down his thighs, her mouth already against his cock, breath hot on his hard flesh. “Taste you.” She looks up at him, watches him watch her as she takes him in her mouth. He’s thick and long, but she doesn’t think, just feels as he fills her up. She shifts on her knees and he moves his hips, angling himself better inside the heat of her mouth as she wraps her lips tight around him. 

He groans as she sucks hard at the skin, taking him deep as her hands press against his skin, her nails scraping as she curls her fingers into his hips. She sees him curl his hand around the edge of the table, fingers blanching white as he grips it tight. She forces her hands flat against his skin then slides them back, curving them down his ass, her nails scraping his skin.

Dane jerks forward, pushing himself deeper still and she increases the pressure of her tongue along the underside of his cock, feeling the pulse beat in her mouth, in her head. Her teeth graze lightly at his shaft and he gasps, his whole body shuddering. His hands release the table then grab it tighter, shadows of red surrounding the whiteness of his knuckles.

“A-angel.” He barely manages the word between each rough pant of breath, knees giving way slightly as her fingers rake his ass again. “God, Angel…” He comes hard and fast and she swallows him down as best she can, his hips jerking forward erratically with every thrust. 

He sags there for a moment, his weight bowing the table slightly as she pulls away, licking her lips. His laugh is barely audible, but she can see it shining in his eyes. “You’re dangerous as hell, Angel.”

“That’s why you like me.” 

He nods as she stands, tugging her close to him and wrapping his arms around her. She likes the feel of him against her, likes the way his t-shirt hangs halfway down her thighs. “Damn straight.” His hands rest on her ass and she looks up at him. 

“So you leave tomorrow morning.”

“The schedule says seven in the morning, but I’d wager it’ll be closer to noon. John’ll be ready by seven, Layla’ll be ready by nine and Rat and Jackson won’t be ready until we bail their asses out of jail.” 

“And when will you be ready?”

He lifts one hand and strokes her hair off away from her face. “I’m not sure either of us is ready for the answer to that, Angel.”

**

John slides onto the seat next to her during the warm up. She looks him over with Dane’s description of him in mind and has to agree. He’s like a kid that someone stuck on giraffe legs, all bright eyes and music in his blood. He proselytizes the gospel of Springsteen, divining life’s greater meaning in the lines of Born to Run and Thunder Road until someone shuts him up with a beer or a threat or sometimes a kiss. He hums along with the warm up, his fingers constantly tapping on the table. Half the time his music is different from what she hears from the band, and every time he leans over and explains why it would be better. She doesn’t know music at all, but when he hums the tune his way, it makes more sense in her head.

“Careful, Angel. This one’ll hypnotize you with his big, puppy-dog eyes.” Dane strokes her hair as he comes up behind her, but there’s no real warning in his voice. She has a feeling these two are more than friends, though she’s not sure she wants to find out if that means they’re like brothers or lovers. “We have bets as to how long it takes John to score and how many girls he manages to bed every stop.”

“Quite the playboy, is he?” She smiles at John who blushes red enough to see, even in the dim light of the club. “A real ladies’ man?”

Dane leans over her and ruffles John’s thick, brown, curly hair. “A regular Romeo.”

John makes a face. “Which should tell you something about how every single one of my relationships ends.”

“Oh yeah.” Dane hooks the chair out from under the table with his foot and turns it around, straddling it and stealing John’s beer from across the table, finishing the remaining half. “Heartache, underage marriages and death.”

John laughs and shakes his head. “Better than in jail or chained naked to a dumpster in Biloxi.”

“Hey,” Dane laughs as well, reaching under the table to run his hand along Gail’s leg. “You’re not going to scare her with that sort of thing.”

“What makes you think I’m trying to scare her? Maybe I’m trying to turn her on.” John leans in close and she can’t help but smile at the impish grin on his face, the wicked gleam in his eyes. “If you’re into that sort of thing, I was the one chained naked in Biloxi. Only it was to a bed, so don’t let him take all the credit.”

“Yeah, and you were found by a scary-ass Russian maid who might have been a member of the local mob.”

“She was eighty if she was a day.”

“Doesn’t explain the boner you had when I stumbled in.”

“Boys, boys.” Gail laughs and shakes her head, holding her hands against their mouths. “I think you’re both pretty. You can stop the pissing contest.”

“That happens later,” John informs her. “But only if there have been massive quantities of tequila.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Hey, Dane.” Layla’s voice booms out of the speakers. “You thinking about getting your ass up here or do I have to hand it to you on a platter before you serve it to me?”

“Coming, boss-man.” Layla flips him off then turns back to Rat, both of them concentrating on a chord change they’ve been working on all afternoon. “I gotta go save the day with rock and roll.” He leans in again and kisses her, taking his time about it. She can feel everyone’s eyes on them still, and she feels the heat flood her cheeks, but the other heat he produces takes precedence. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She nods as he jumps up on stage, all lithe form and muscle. John’s eyes follow him then move back to her and she feels the blush darken. “Is this where you warn me off?”

“Warn you off?” He sounds surprised and she has to look at him. “Why would I do that?”

“You’re leaving town tomorrow? He’s on the road all the time? He has a girl in every town? He’s really an asshole in disguise?”

“You think there’s a disguise?”

She laughs and shakes her head, looking back at Dane. “So you’re not going to warn me off?”

“Of course I’m going to warn you off.” John shrugs. “He’s leaving town tomorrow. He’s always on the road. We’re based out of Texas and don’t get out this way much. He’s had girls in other towns. He is an asshole.” He traces the ring of condensation his beer left, drawing patterns in the water. “He’s also my best friend. I’d do just about anything for him. And I can safely say that I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Is that good or bad?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know.” 

The band starts up and he closes his eyes, listening to the music, or maybe the music in his head. She watches his fingers to try and tell, but they don’t move, don’t give anything away. “It could just be this. A perfect little moment.”

“Moments end.” He still doesn’t look at her, doesn’t change his expression. “Is that what you want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want, John. At seven o’clock tomorrow morning, you’re going to be in your van driving north to Maine, and Dane’s going to be with you. And now, I’d really like to not think about it for a while…until about six fifty-nine tomorrow morning.”

John nods and gets up, looking at her finally. His eyes are dark and she can see the worry in the set of his face. “I hope you’re right.”

“About worrying? About moments?”

“About him being in the van.”

**

Dane drops by her table right before the first set, sitting next to her in the seat John had vacated earlier. “Lay’s feeling feisty tonight. Gonna be a good show.”

“Does that mean Bon Jovi?”

“You’re going to relive the eighties like you never thought you could.” His hand is warm at the base of her neck, his fingers kneading gently. “I’m thinking Johnny must have put out this afternoon.” He leans in, nuzzling just below her ear, his tongue tracing the hollow there. “You gonna dance for me, Angel?”

“Here? Or at home?”

He groans roughly. “Damn, woman. Do you know how fucking hard it is to play with a hard on?”

She raises her eyebrow and runs her finger over the item in question. “You managed it on Thursday.”

He laughs, his eyes half closed as he thrusts up against her hand. “Angel’s the wrong damn name for you, darlin’.”

“Name you gave me.” She rubs harder, caressing him through the worn denim. “No one to blame but yourself.”

“Blame both of us.” He turns his head and kisses her, tongue delving into the heat of her mouth. He tastes her like a cat, licking at the roof, her teeth, her tongue. He flickers his tongue over her taste buds until all she can process is him. “Want to see you swaying for me in the crowd, then I want to take you home and dance with you all night long.”

“You got the stamina for that?”

His eyes flash heat and promise as he gets to his feet. She can still feel the weight of his hand at her neck even after he goes, not glancing back to make sure she’ll be there dancing for him.

**

The windows of her car are steamed up, impossible to see through as Dane pulls her down onto him, holding her hips as he thrusts upward. Her nails are digging into the leather of the back seat and her knees are digging into his thighs. She can’t breathe in the too hot air, can’t breathe with his mouth against hers, stealing her breath with every desperate stroke. 

His bare chest is sweaty against her t-shirt, and she leans in, tracing one of his tattoos with her tongue and tasting the salty heat of him. He moans low, grunting with effort as they move together. She hits her head on the ceiling, and the car floods with light. She gasps and Dane groans and she reaches up, fumbling for the switch as he slides his hands under her shirt and captures her breasts, squeezing them lightly. 

“God, Angel.” He rubs his thumbs over her nipple through the bra and she tightens around him on reflex. He groans and squeezes again then slides his hand around her back to pull her against him. His mouth fits over her breast and his tongue and teeth tease her through her shirt and bra. She shivers at the sensation and arches into him, increasing the pace of her thrusts as he captures the nipple between his teeth and rubs it back and forth between them.

“Shit, Dane. Fuck.” She rocks hard against him, grinding desperately as his hands slide back to her hips, holding her down as he jerks off the seat, burying himself a little deeper with every thrust. Her hands rake his shoulders as he moves to the other breast, leaving the wet fabric exposed to the chilly night air that threatens just outside their bubble of heat. “Please.”

“C’mon,” he purrs against her skin, bringing one hand down so he can slide his fingers over her clit. Gail whimpers and thrusts down harder still. “C’mon, Angel. Come for me. C’mon.”

She gasps again and lets her head fall back, her body contracting around his, pulsing with her orgasm. Dane doesn’t make a sound as a shudder runs through his body, convulsing with the rush of his own. She collapses against him, breathing hard enough that it hurts. 

“Don’t leave.”

“Break’s over in three minutes, and unless you want the wrath of Layla coming down from on high, I have to.”

“That’s not what I…” She bites her lower lip and shakes her head, easing off of him carefully. Her knees stick to his skin and the leather seats and the sound sends another shiver down her spine. “We certainly don’t want the wrath of Layla.”

“Or the wrath of John.” Dane strips off the condom and tugs his jeans up. She watches him for a moment, only raising her eyes to his as he reaches out and traces the dark wet spot on her t-shirt. “Take that off.”

“Oh, sure,” she laughs as she pulls it off. “You say that now.”

He laughs and hands her his shirt. “Otherwise we’ll really get looks from the band.” He kisses her quickly and slaps her lightly on the ass as she tugs his shirt over her head. “You look good in my clothes.”

“You look good in me.” She climbs out of the car and stands there, rubbing her arms as he gets out behind her. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag and then rubs it out carefully on the brick wall. “Hedonist.”

“Angel, you knew that the minute you met me.”

She nods, smiling up at him. “I think it’s one of your more endearing qualities.”

“That doesn’t say much for the rest of my qualities, you know.” 

She nods again, rising up on tiptoe to give him another kiss. “I know.”

**

Dane follows her into the club, sated enough that the only thought on his mind is that the Violent Femmes logo looks a hell of a lot better on her chest than his. He ignores John’s raised eyebrows and flips Rat off before he can say a word, nearly running into Gail as she stops in front of him. “What’s the matter, Angel?”

Layla interrupts, grabbing Dane’s arm. “C’mon. We’re supposed to be on.”

Dane shakes her off, wrapping Gail’s braid around his hand, feeling the strands that have come loose from their adventure in the car. “Angel?”

“It’s nothing,” she manages, her voice tight and soft, barely audible over Layla’s annoyed strumming reverberating along the stage. Dane shakes his head, about to protest, when she looks up and smiles at him. He raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth, stopping when she nods to her left. “I have to go.”

“Why?”

She doesn’t touch him, doesn’t do anything for a long second that feels like it lasts an eternity, that feels like it never even began. “Because that’s my husband.”

He hears Layla’s breath, or maybe it’s John’s. He knows for sure it’s not his, because he doesn’t remember how to do it. Gail’s just looking at him, her eyes on his, trying to hold the moment together. “Lucky guy.”

She swallows and nods, glancing toward the man standing at the edge of the stage. Dane takes the moment and bounds onto the stage, grabbing his guitar and strapping it on. He watches Gail turn back to find him gone and then look up onto the stage. Layla looks at him and shakes her head, everything plain in her kohl-outlined brown eyes. 

Layla turns to Jackson on the drums and smirks at him. “Heartache Tonight. Let’s see if Dane knows the words.”

**

Dane closes the bar with his own bottle of tequila empty except for one last shot lining the bottom. He tilts the bottle, watching the liquid move, swaying back and forth like it’s dancing to the lonely wail on the jukebox. Layla had pumped it full of quarters, dialing up every single meaningful and melancholy song she could find, driving the last few remaining patrons out with an overdose of Patsy Cline. “Barkeep!”

“The barkeep’s asleep behind the bar.” John sits down at the table, taking the bottle and pouring the last of the tequila into Dane’s glass. “He’s afraid to kick your ass out.”

“Twice in one night would be too much for any one man.” Dane nods sagely. “Not that I was kicked out really. I mean, I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

“Please, I beg of you. I hear Leaving on a Jet Plane one more time tonight, I’m going to have to strangle Layla with her guitar strap.” He takes a drink from his own beer and sighs. “Sorry she was such a bitch.”

“What’s the matter? You not puttin’ out?” He drains the shot glass and sets it upside down on the table. “She gets a mite bitchy when she’s not getting laid on a regular basis.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“You and Layla? Sure, Romeo. I’m all fucking ears.”

John drains his beer. “Not what I mean, and you know it.”

“Nothing to tell, Johnny. She’s married and I was fucking her. She didn’t have a ring, she neglected to mention it, and I never thought to ask.” He stretches out, picking up the tequila bottle and rolling it between his hands. “She asked me to fucking stay, Johnny.” His voice nearly breaks and he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is rough, raspy with anger and hurt. “Fucking cunting bitch.” He tosses the tequila bottle, watching as it shatters on the empty stage. 

The bartender yells and John stands up. “C’mon, Roberts. Before we end up in jail.”

“Be a change of pace. Let Rat and Jackson bail us out.” He grabs the ashtray off the table and chucks it at one of the lights, sending a shower of sparks and glass from above. “Ha.”

“Dane.” John gets up and heads toward the bar, doing his best to placate the bartender as he storms around the counter. Dane grabs John’s beer glass and slams it down against the table, letting it rain beer and slivers of glass. “Dane! Jesus!”

John grabs for the bartender, earning himself a hard fist to the gut. Dane acts on instinct, grabbing the last thing on the table, his shot glass, and winging it, the sickening thud of it hitting the bartender’s temple loud in the room. 

John groans, doubled over and slumped against the bar stool as he looks down at the bartender laid out on the floor. “Fuck.”

“You’re both going to goddamn jail,” the bartender snarls as he makes his way to his hands and knees. “You’re lucky your bitch ass girlfriend already got your money.”

“Lucky?” Dane’s laugh rasps as the jukebox dies, the final wailing moan of Don Gibson’s Oh, Lonesome Me fading out. “You think I’m goddamn lucky?” He grabs his chair and slams it against the edge of the table, splintering one of the legs. “I’ll fucking show you lucky, you son of a…”

“Dane!” John steps in front of the bartender, his eyes open and wide as Dane charges them. Dane pulls up short, his hot breath blowing hard and rough against John’s face. “Dane.”

Dane tightens his grip on the broken leg. “Get out of my fucking way, Johnny.”

“Yeah, Johnny.” The bartender’s voice is mocking and high pitched, though it can’t override the sound of him cocking the shotgun. “You’re in my line of fire.”

“Pretty sure we can be reasonable,” John assures them both, not moving from in front of Dane. “We pay the damages, we clean up, we go.”

“You’ll pay the damages,” the bartender agrees, leveling the shotgun at the back of John’s head all the while holding Dane’s eyes, daring him to make a move. “But you’re not going anywhere quite yet. Not until the cops arrive.”

John sighs, the sound almost a groan. “I was kidding about us going to jail, Roberts.”

Dane shrugs, folding his arms over his chest, the ragged, broken end of the chair leg still in his grip. “Huh, really?” He manages a smile for John, though he doubts John’s in the mood for it. “Whoops.”

**

“Drunk and disorderly.” John shakes his head and sinks down onto the rough canvas of the cot in their cell. “And I’m not goddamn either one of them.”

“Sorry.”

“Layla’s going to kill me. No.” He shakes his head and rakes his hand through his hair. “First she’s going to kick my ass. Then she’s going to kill me.”

“Actually, if you really aren’t drunk and disorderly, she’s going to mock and laugh at you, then she’ll kick your ass.” Dane sinks down next to John. His eyes burn with smoke and exhaustion and, if his head now is any indication, decapitation is likely to be the only cure come morning. “Then she’ll kill you.”

”That makes me feel so much better about things.” John bows his head and rubs the back of his neck. “You should consider motivational speaking. You’re a natural.”

Dane laughs and then groans, slumping back against the wall. “If it’s any consolation, Layla’s really gonna kick my ass.”

“Don’t forget the mocking. The mocking will be legendary.”

“Don’t remind me.” He rubs his head, the short hairs rough against his palm. “Shit, Johnny.”

“I’m the one whose romances are supposed to end in horror, tragedy and pain, you know. I don’t appreciate the whole business of you usurping my niche.”

Dane sighs. “Trust me, Romeo, I’d much rather you suffer through this.”

“You want to talk about it?”

Dane raises an eyebrow sharply. “Do I really look like she completely emasculated me?”

John’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. “Um…no?”

“Well, then I’ve still got my balls, so no, I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

“Right.” John exhales and nods. “Sorry.”

Dane sits for a few minutes then turns his head to look at John. “No. Oh, no. You are not fucking pouting.”

“No, I’m not pouting, you fucker. What I am is relatively goddamn sober, and so I don’t enjoy being in jail.”

“Ah. Right. Sorry.” 

John shrugs. “Not the first time, Roberts. Hell, it’s not the tenth time. And I seriously doubt it’s anywhere close to being the last.”

There’s another silence before Dane speaks again, his eyes closed as he rests back against the concrete wall. “So, who’s gonna bail us out? Rat? Jackson?”

“As if they have money.” John smirks. “Or would voluntarily set foot in a police station.”

“Or are sober or straight enough to set foot in one. Good point.” Dane exhales loudly and turns his head to look at John. “So Layla it is.”

“Yup.” John closes his eyes. “I’m not getting laid for the rest of this tour.”

“You could.”

John laughs incredulously, cutting a quick glance to Dane. “Right. And then Layla can just cut off my dick and beat me to death with it.”

Dane snorts with laughter and slumps down further on the cot. “You have to admit, she does have a certain poetry in vengeance.”

“You can say that. She’s just going to laugh at you. And you can still get laid.”

“Can,” Dane agrees with a soft sigh. “Don’t see it happening.”

“That’s because you’re still drunk and stunned. Wait until everything kicks back in and you get mad.”

“Pussy galore,” Dane states, not quite agreeing with him.

John nods and slumps down against the wall next to Dane. “I’m here. If you want to talk.”

“Yeah.” Dane closes his eyes again, rubbing them with his fingers. “I know, Romeo. Don’t hold your breath.”

**

“Evans. Roberts.”

John starts, his head falling off Dane’s shoulder. Dane opens his eyes as John straightens up, blinking at the cop on the other side of the bars. Dane smirks slightly. “Guilty as charged.”

John groans. “Never say that to a cop, Dane.”

The officer smirks and dangles his keys. “There’s a lovely lady outside who posted bail for you.”

“And by lovely do you mean amused or pissed off?” John gets to his feet, rising up on his toes as he stretches, his shirt riding up and exposing his stomach.

The cop’s smirk sharpens. “I would most definitely go with the latter.”

“Damn.”

Dane gets to his feet, groaning as his center of gravity shifts, as his head protests violently. “So we’re free to go.”

“So long as the information you provided is legitimate for remuneration of damages, yeah.”

Dane laughs. “Trust me, there won’t be any problem in that regard.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, the gesture tugging them lower on his hips. “Let’s go, Johnny.”

Layla’s sitting in front of the cop’s desk when the walk into the main part of the station. Her dark skin looks like melted chocolate even under the harsh yellow lights, and her brown eyes are bright with annoyance and amusement

“Not a word, Lay.”

“Oh, no.” She stands up, her tank top straining against her breasts, the handwritten “And my brain is even bigger” hard to read, faded and stretched with the fabric. Her jeans are tight and hug her ass, and Dane can’t help but smile as John and the cop both get caught looking. “You would not believe how many words I have for you two. You’re lucky that most of them might get me arrested, so you get to wait until we’re in the van.”

“So a good morning kiss would be out of the question?” Dane asks, doing his best innocent impression.

“Roberts, you’ll be lucky if I actually let you ride in the van.”

“Aww.” He tilts his head, letting his lower lip slide out. “Lonely night, Lay?”

“Fuck you.” She turns her attention to John. “You were supposed to keep him out of trouble, Evans.”

“Yeah? Have you met him?” He shifts his stance, moving a step closer to Dane. Layla’s eyes narrow slightly and Dane shrugs. 

“Less than five hundred in damages and a night in the drunk tank. Think he did pretty well, Layla.” He looks over a the cop. “We need to sign something?”

“Right here.” 

Dane glances at the form and signs it, accepting the envelope of his belongings. He moves over to Layla as John takes his turn signing the form. “Thanks, Lay.”

“Not much of a band if my guitarist and roadie are stuck in jail.”

“Manager,” John interjects.

“Roadie.” Layla corrects him. “We’re not big enough for jail to be cache.”

Dane reaches up and strokes her hair. “Go easy on Romeo.”

“Why should I?” She’s smiling though, so Dane smiles back. “He blow you in the cell or something?”

“Huh.” Dane’s brow furrows. “Never even though to ask.”

“Jesus, Dane. This chick really did mess you up.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Layla. Might have been too much for Johnny, choosing between you and me?”

“Are you done discussing me like I’m not even here?” John snaps. “We’re supposed to be in Passadumkeag by five.”

“Yeah, John.” Layla slides her arm around him, her hand slipping into his back pocket. “We’re done.”

“You’d better not be trying to lift my wallet, Layla,” John warns her. “We’re in a police station and I will have you arrested.”

“You just have to ask if you want me in handcuffs, Evans.”

Dane smiles at John’s groan, wincing as they open the station doors and bright light blinds him, causing actual physical pain. “Oh, shit.”

John echoes the sentiment and Dane looks over to flip him shit about not being drunk, but the comment dies on his lips as his gaze lands on the Jeep John’s staring at, the couple standing next to it.

Layla’s voice is soft. “You’re fucking a cop’s wife, Dane?”

“I’m not fucking anybody.”

Layla nods. “Explains why I got a call at the hotel from her before I heard from you two.”

Dane swallows. “She called you?”

“Yeah.” Layla tosses the keys to the van at John. “Drive us the fuck out of this town, Evans.”

“Yeah.” John says. Dane ignores the look he gives him as Layla climbs in the passenger’s seat. “Let’s go.”

**

“So, who’s the guy?”

“What?” Gail drags her eyes away from the van and back to her husband. 

“The guy. The one you’re staring at? The one you were with last night? The one whose shirt you were wearing?” His smile is sharp-edged and not amused. “That guy?”

“I told you, he’s just a guy in the band. He jumped off the stage, stumbled into me and spilled beer all over me. His idea of chivalry was to drag me back behind the stage and give me his shirt.”

“Nice guy.”

“Not really.” She closes her eyes and leans against him, refusing to watch as the van pulls out of the parking lot. “What time should I pick you up?”

“Six-thirty.” He catches her under her chin and lifts her face. “Go out to dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Dress up for me?”

She nods, stealing the keys from his hand. “Think I can manage that. Have a good day.” She closes her eyes again as he kisses her, staying beside the Jeep until he walks away and into the building. She climbs behind the wheel as soon as the door shuts behind him. Eight hours at least to Maine. No way to catch him, to explain. Gail sighs and turns the key in the ignition, revving the engine until the noise is almost enough to block the screaming in her head. 

She pops the clutch and the tires squeal as she peels out of the parking lot. She turns left toward home, not once looking in the rearview mirror for a blue van headed somewhere else.

She gets home and goes straight to bed, stretching out on the floral comforter and wrapping herself up in it. It doesn’t smell like him – she’s not that romantic or desperate – but feeling it against her skin reminds her of him against her, on top of her, beneath her, inside her. She makes a cocoon around herself and closes her eyes, rubbing her finger over the back of her left hand, feeling the slight indentation where her ring used to be.

She sighs and unwinds the blanket from around her, sitting up on the bed and leaning back against the headboard. The house is emptier than it’s been in a long time, lonelier than she ever noticed it was. She crawls down the bed to the low chest at the end of it, opening it and pulling out the small photo album she keeps in there. Pictures she can’t quite share – her favorite picture of her father from when she was a kid, a picture of her and her mother on her sixteenth birthday. A wedding photo of her parents, faded and cracked, and one of her and Christopher in the same pose, same church. 

She traces his face with her finger, carefully outlining his smile. Her breath catches in her chest and she closes the album, sliding out of bed to make herself a drink. She pours a glass of wine, watching the bits of cork float in the liquid for a moment before closing her eyes, her forehead against the wall.

She didn’t look at Dane as she’d left the bar, couldn’t. It was important to focus on Christopher, to keep eye contact with him. She could feel Dane’s hand fall away from the small of her back, leaving her colder than when he’d stripped her jeans off her in the car. Christopher had insisted they stay for a few minutes, have a drink and listen to the band. She’d sat with her back to the stage, every word like a fist around her heart, especially as Dane’s low rumble had seemed to accuse her with every word.

“It’s hard to explain.” She laughs as she realizes she’s spoken out loud. It makes it seem more real though, more understandable. It is hard to explain. Hard to explain that her husband isn’t everything that he appears. Dane would laugh, she thinks, and remind her than no one is. It doesn’t help to think of him, doesn’t do anything but make it painfully clear that something so right, even for such a short time, can hurt this much.

She wishes she had someone to call, someone to talk to about it, but the closest thing she has to a friend is another cop’s wife, and there’s no way that is going to end in any way other than bad. Even if they were really friends, there’s no way not to look bad. She’s a married woman and she cheated. She lied to Dane and now she’s lying to Christopher. She spent four days pretending that her real life didn’t exist just so she could spend it with some stranger and fall in love.

Draining her wine, she tosses the glass into the sink and listens to it break. There’s something about the soft tinkle of it shatter that catches in her breath and she has to blink back tears as she heads back to the bedroom. Without thinking, she picks up clothes from the floor, stuffing them into the hamper, desperate for something to do. She needs something mind numbing and dull, and laundry’s the only thing she can think of that will fit the bill until she picks up her clothes from the night before, the Violent Femmes t-shirt still ripe with sweat and smoke and…”Oh, God. Dane.” 

She buries her face in it and inhales sharply, her eyes closed tight against the heat of building tears. Forcing herself to breathe, she lowers the shirt and folds it, carefully smoothing out any wrinkles, the logo nearly shredded from constant wear and washing. Opening the chest one more time, she carefully places the shirt in it, covering it with the photo album. She should wash it, she knows, but she can’t bear the thought of losing his scent, letting it wash away with the rest of the night.

**

She dresses carefully after three drinks and a hot shower. She knows Christopher’s preferences like the back of her hand and dresses accordingly. Black thigh-high stockings, black heels, black dress just barely long enough to cover the garter hooks on the stockings. She looks at herself in the mirror, putting her hair up with the same attention to detail she put into sliding her stockings on, making sure the seams up the back were perfectly aligned. 

The necklace was an anniversary gift, and it hangs just between her breasts, the pearls a shimmering white against the glitter on her skin. The small diamond circle holding the strands together sparkles nearly as bright as the glitter in the bathroom light and she sighs, watching it rise and fall with the breath. Her engagement ring catches the light and her wedding rings gleams gold. “Practically perfect in every way,” she smirks at herself, the gesture contorting her perfectly made up face into a mockery of itself. 

The clock chimes in the distance and she shivers. Dane’s probably on the stage right now, bathed in colored lights, muscles moving under his skin as he and John set up, as Rat and Jackson plug everything in and test it, as Layla paces the stage humming under her breath. Time for all of them to go on soon, including her.

Christopher is waiting as she pulls up, freshly showered and changed. He looks good, a shock of his blond hair falling into his face as he laughs with one of his fellow officers, both of them looking at her as she parks the Jeep. She slides out, showing a hint of leg before she straightens her skirt. Christopher’s eyes are hot and appreciative and she wishes she felt any of the thrill that had shot through her the second Dane’s eyes had met hers. Instead she feels nothing, which as to be better than fear.

“Hey, baby.” He wraps his arm around her waist as she comes up to them. “You remember Todd.”

“Hey, Todd.” 

“What do you think, man?” He’s forgotten her already, she knows, wrapped up in the moment of one-upmanship. “Sexy, huh?”

“She’s hot.” Todd looks nearly as uncomfortable as Gail feels, Christopher’s hand a weight against her hip. “You look good, Gail.”

“Good? Dude, she looks like sin in high heels. Normally such a sweet, prim little angel, aren’t you, baby?”

She shivers a little at the word, at the husky heat of his breath against her shoulder. “You asked me to dress up.”

“I did, didn’t I? Gonna take you somewhere nice tonight.” His hand slides lower, skimming the hem of her skirt. “Show you off.” He kisses her neck, his breath warm in the cool evening air. “C’mon, baby.”

She smiles at Todd, tighter than she’d like, but unable to help it. Christopher guides her toward the Jeep, opening the door for her and helping her into the car. He hurries around, attentive and solicitous of her as he starts the Jeep and heads out of the station lot. She glances in the side view mirror and watches Todd’s reaction, wondering if everyone can see that things aren’t right, aren’t even close.

The restaurant is quiet and private, upscale enough that she doesn’t seem out of place, though a few of the older patrons look at her as if questioning her legitimacy of being on Christopher’s arm. She feels him squeeze her hand and smiles over at him, letting him guide her to their table. 

“I’m sorry if I ruined your night last night.”

“You didn’t. I was just out listening to music.” She lets him push her chair in, forcing another smile as he runs his hand along her shoulders. “Everything’s all right?”

“Fine.” He smiles as well, sitting across from her and signaling for the waiter and a bottle of wine. “The conference went well. I got my certification.”

“That’s great. Something to celebrate.” She watches the waiter pour the wine, willing her glass fuller. “How did you know where to find me last night? I mean, I didn’t expect you home for at least another day.”

“D.C. wasn’t what I expected, though with the promotion, I suppose I’ll have to be down there more often.”

“Promotion?”

“Yeah. Something else to celebrate. They want me in the big city.”

“Wow.” She blinks and licks her lips, taking a sip from her glass. “So we have to…move.”

“You don’t mind. I mean, you can be a housewife anywhere, can’t you?” He smiles and then rolls his eyes. “Okay, not a housewife. A freelance journalist.”

It’s his little joke, she knows. She hasn’t been anything more than his wife for a long time now. “D.C. is fine, Christopher.” She takes another drink of wine, letting it coat her tongue and holding it there for a moment before swallowing. “I’m sure we’ll make new friends. Fit in.”

“Why do you want friends, Gail?” He reaches across the table and curves his hand around her wrist, fingers pressing into her flesh. “It’s not like they help, is it?”

“Help?” She keeps her face blank, refusing to let him see that the pressure is getting to her, that her pulse is jumping, racing. “I don’t know what you mean, Christopher.”

“You do. I can see it in your eyes. Is that what you were doing at the club? Looking for some brawny musician with less brains than he has dick so you could tell him your sob story?”

“I don’t have a sob story.”

“No?” He turns her wrist, watching the skin blanch white beneath his grip, the red raising around his fingers. “What would you call it then? I mean, story’s another word for lie, right?”

“Christopher, you’re hurting me.”

He laughs, the sound low and seductive and completely at odds with the dark look in his eyes. “That’s what you say, right? He hurts me? He’s mean to me? He belittles me? He degrades me? That’s what you tell them, right? All the bastards you let between those gorgeous thighs of yours?”

“I’m not cheating on you, Christopher.”

“No one’s going to listen to you, Gail. I’m a decorated officer. I’m the pride of the Poughkeepsie force. And you’re…well, you’re pretty much nothing, aren’t you? Just a whore in fancy clothing, right?”

“Christopher.” Her voice is sharp, though she keeps it low and between them. “You’re hurting me.”

He smiles, releasing her wrist. He watches her closely as she pulls her hand toward her, massaging the dark strip of skin where his fingers dug into her arm. “So, what do you want for dinner?”

“Anything’s fine.” She rubs her wrist for a moment then takes the bracelet off her opposite arm, slipping it on so that it covers the dark mark his fingers left behind. “You choose.”

“See, Gail? You just have to listen to me. Trust me. And everything works out just fine. You’ll see.”

“Yeah.” She nods and takes another drink of wine. “Everything will be fine.”

**

Dane knows John’s watching him, and he does his best to ignore it. Fortunately for him, his best is pretty damn good, so it’s only every once in a while that John catches his eye and he actually notices the hangdog look on John’s face. It’s worry and concern, which Dane has no use for, especially since right now the only thing he wants is another beer, another shot and another hot blonde sitting on his lap in a short skirt that leaves nothing at all to his imagination.

Rat makes the first and last comment about Gail, which earns him a black eye and a bloody nose and earns them another night in the damn town, since Layla and Jackson end up taking him to the hospital rather than playing. 

“Just as well.” John shrugs as he sits down across from Dane. The table’s already littered with bottles, empty glasses and a pitcher, and Dane doesn’t let John’s sudden need for discourse get in the way of serious drinking. “Getting pretty damn sick of those songs.”

“Just gonna hear ‘em on the jukebox, Romeo.” Dane tosses back his shot and slams the glass on the table. “Play the damn things for a reason. Fucking heartache and heartbreak and cheating and cheap sex and cheaper booze. That’s what these clubs are about. What we’re about.”

“Careful, Dane. Your romantic streak is showing.” John drinks from his bottle, licking his lips after draining the last dregs from the dark glass. 

“You be careful, Johnny, or you’re going to find yourself sharing a room with Rat tonight.”

John smirks and signals for another beer, leaning back in his chair. “You know, as soon as he’s recovered, he’s going to kick your ass. He makes his living being pretty.”

“He makes his living thumping bass and scoring chicks and scraping by on less sense than God gave an apple.” Dane pours himself another glass of beer. “Not my fault he didn’t get out of the way.”

“Your fault you were swinging.”

“No. His fault I was swinging.” Dane can feel the tension coiling in his muscles, can hear it in his voice. “He made the mistake of talking.”

“Thought we called each other on our bullshit.” John’s voice is light, and it’s like he’s tiptoeing across the minefield, testing Dane’s limits. “He flipped you shit.”

“I’m gonna say this once, Johnny. Once and never again.” He leans in and he can see the flare of emotion in John’s eyes, is surprised at how much the flash of fear makes him smile. If the reflection he sees is any indication, the smile is wolfish and dangerous, which is exactly how Dane feels. “She’s off limits.”

“You were stupid, Dane. You got screwed…”

He grabs John’s shirt by the collar and slams him down onto the table, violence trembling beneath his skin. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about it, Evans. Why don’t you go follow Layla’s pussy for a while? I don’t need a fucking keeper.”

“I thought I was your friend.” 

“Yeah, Romeo?” Dane laughs, the sound bitter and hard as he lets John up, shoving away from him and making his way toward the exit. “Well, so did I.”

**

Dane wakes up and groans, the little sunlight that filters through the burnt orange curtains enough to cause spikes of pain to shoot through his head. “Oh, fuck.”

“Did that.” John tosses the bottle of aspirin at him, and Dane can hear his huff of laughter as it makes impact and Dane groans again. “I’m assuming. I don’t know for sure, though the three girls I chased out of here seemed a good indication.”

“Three. Huh. Record.” He sits up and grunts in pain, falling back against the headboard. “Oh…Fuck.”

“Yeah. We’ve covered that.” Dane cracks one eye open as John’s voice gets louder, watching his shadow fall across the bed. “Here.” There’s anger still there in his voice and irritation, and Dane’s marginally aware that there’s also a layer of hurt. “Water.”

“Swallowing hurts.”

“Hope the girls didn’t say that last night.” He takes the aspirin from Dane and shakes a few out. “Could be a sign of something.”

“I’m careful.” Dane accepts the pills and swallows them down without the glass of water. “More than I can say for you.”

“What?” 

He smirks at John’s expression. “Not questioning your sexual caution, Romeo. Just remarking on your astounding ability to court tragedy.” He closes his eyes again. “Always the goddamn hero, right? Can’t stay away until you put things right. Fucking puppy getting kicked time and again and not smart enough to run the fuck away.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“It sure as fuck is, John. What the fuck are you doing here taking care of me? I told you flat out last night to leave me the fuck alone, and instead you’re here with aspirin and fucking McDonalds food and hoping to smooth things over. Keep coming back to the scene of the crime, Evans, you’re gonna get stabbed in the gut.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t feel like giving up on things because they’re not easy.”

“Yeah?” Words burn at the back of his throat, hurt and pain and anger that comes out in lashes that hit John, keep him away, send him back a step like a physical blow. “That why you stayed at your daddy’s house?”

“Stayed there because I wasn’t the only one there, Dane.” John’s voice is flat and cool. “You going to call me a martyr for taking another beating so my mother and sister got one less?”

“Shit, John.” Dane’s head falls back and he runs his hand through his hair. “Sorry.”

“What happened, Dane?” John sits on the edge of the bed, crowding him just enough that Dane knows he’s there, but not enough that the itch burns his skin and he has to get the fuck out of town. John’s perfected this to an art, and Dane hates him for it almost as much as he appreciates it. “What happened?”

“She’s married.”

“That’s it?”

Dane laughs bitterly, shortly. “That’s fucking enough.”

“You just…You’ve fucked more women than I can count, Dane, and I bet at least one of them was married. Why’s this hitting you so hard?”

“Why’d you leave that pretty girl behind in Cheyenne?”

“What?” John shifts, suddenly on the defensive. 

Dane straightens and then gets off the bed, making his way to his bag and the bottle of booze inside it. He unscrews the top and drains a good fifth of it off the top. “C’mon. We’re going tit for tat. Let’s have the goods. You got your rocks off and she thought you meant forever, so you got the fuck out of town, right? Turned you into a bastard and a half all the way back to Texas.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” John’s teeth are clenched, and Dane has to smile. So simple to get under his skin, so easy to hit all the buttons that make him go on the defensive. John’s as see-through as glass even though he thinks he’s muddied and soiled. 

“Not a goddamn thing. Just like Gail doesn’t have a goddamn thing to do with this. Rat pissed me off. I got drunk. I got laid. Sounds like business as usual to me.”

“If it’s business as usual, if it’s nothing, then why the fuck are you attacking me?” John stands his ground, facing off against Dane across the room. Dane looks at him for a moment, taking another long drink off the bottle. 

“I got a better question, Johnny. Why are you taking it?”

“Maybe you remind me of my old man.”

Dane sucks in his breath and takes another hit off the bottle. “That so?”

“No, it’s not fucking so.” John sneers at him, looking for all the world like a pissed off bird, feathers ruffled and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about ten seconds away from picking a fight. “And you know it.”

“Yeah.” Dane exhales and holds out the bottle, the closest thing he can get to a truce. “So why do you take it?”

“Because, Dane.” John takes the whiskey and downs his own swallow, letting the fight go out of him, out of the room. “You need me to.”

**

Gail is on edge the rest of the night, waiting. She waits for the moment when Christopher loses it, loses control and hell breaks loose all around her. Some sort of calm seems to overtake him though and he doesn’t touch her. The dinner is tasteless in her mouth, and she goes over her options one more time as he talks about D.C. 

It’s mindless talk that she doesn’t hear, since she knows that her opinions don’t matter. She pays attention to the tone of his voice though, knowing that he can slip in a question to make sure she’s listening, to accuse her of something. She knows the accusations well.

She’s tried to leave twice before, but he stopped her both times. Her parents are dead, and Christopher moved her away before they died. Her father got caught up in an internal affairs investigation and the only thing Christopher wanted was distance. She didn’t go to her mother’s funeral or her father’s. The thought of standing at their gravesides with him next to her seemed worse than not going.

She doesn’t have friends, and the closest she does have is another cop’s wife, and no one believes that a cop – a decorated officer, she corrects herself – would do anything like what she’s accusing.

When they get home, he helps her out of the car and keeps his hand in the small of her back as they walk up to the house. His hands are smaller than Dane’s, and he’s careful to just touch her with his fingertips. She tries not to think about Dane’s hand flat against her back, warm and comforting. “So I was thinking.”

She nods, waiting for him as he unlocks the front door. “About what?”

“Your hair.”

Gail swallows hard and fights the instinct to raise her hands to her hair. “Oh?” 

“I think you should get it cut.”

“You do? I thought you liked it long.” She bites her lower lip the moment the words are said, cursing herself silently for challenging him. She closes her eyes as he reaches up and undoes one of the clips holding it up, letting a lock of it fall down her back. 

“I do, but we’re moving now. You need something sleeker, more sophisticated.” He takes the strand of hair and wraps it around his hand, tugging slightly. “Can’t have my wife looking like she’s just come home from high school.” He tugs harder and Gail closes her eyes. “Or the street corner.”

“What?” She turns her head sharply, wincing as it causes him to pull her hair. “What?”

“Look at yourself, Gail.”

“You said I looked nice.”

“I wasn’t about to admit in front of Todd that you look like an extra from the Playboy mansion. Jesus, Gail, why didn’t you just fuck him right there in front of me. If you want to be a whore, I’m all for it. Let’s just make sure I get my cut for my wife’s whoring around.”

“You picked out this dress, Christopher.”

“Did I?” He releases her hair and opens the front door, walking in ahead of her. “So you’re saying I want you to look like a whore? Why would I want that, Gail?”

“You showed it to me in the store. You said you wanted to see me in it. You…”

“I didn’t say I wanted you to wear it for everyone in the world to see. Jesus, Gail. Use your head.”

“I…”

He shakes his head and reaches for her chin, holding it tightly. “All those people thought you were my whore, Gail. Do you know how that makes me look? I’ve got a wedding ring on my finger, and when people think I’m slutting around with some made up tramp, it makes me look bad. I don’t like to look bad, Gail.”

“I’m sorry.”

He squeezes harder, his fingers digging pressing against her jaw line. “Use your head.”

“I will.” Tears burn in her eyes. “I will, Christopher.”

“Good.” He releases her and runs his hand through his hair. “I’m going watch a little TV. Why don’t you change into something a little less streetwalker and then grab me a beer and sit with me.”

She nods, swallowing hard. Christopher moves over to the couch and she escapes to the bedroom, letting her hair down as she goes.

**

It’s two days later when it happens.

She’s in the bathroom staring at her reflection, running her fingers along the hair that frames her face. She has an appointment in the afternoon to get it cut and a pile of pictures that Christopher’s approved. She gets the final choice, though her plan involves setting the pictures in front of the stylist and choosing to close her eyes. She closes her eyes for a moment now, remembering Dane pressed against her, his head bent to the side as he kissed her neck, fanned her hair over his head and talked about how she smelled, tasted. She remembers trying to keep her eyes open as he knelt down in front of her, smiling up at her as he…

“You lying bitch.”

She starts, shaking her head and turning toward Christopher. His face is contorted with rage as he charges toward her, shoving her back against the sink. “Chris…”

“You lying fucking bitch.” He shoves a bundle of white cloth into her face, holding it against her mouth and nose. “What is this?” She tries to speak and he presses it harder against her, bending her back over the sink. “You stupid whore. Did you think I wouldn’t know? Think I wouldn’t find out? You think you’re so clever, is that it?”

She reaches out, desperate for air, her nails raking down his cheek. Christopher jerks back, his hand going to his face as Gail gasps for air, catching the fabric as it falls. She pants roughly, closing her eyes for a moment before glancing down at the shirt in her hands. It’s just a plain white t-shirt, slightly dirty. “I…”

“Does it smell like beer, Gail?” There’s a sharp red welt on his cheek from her nail, though there’s no blood. “Does it smell like some jerk in the band dumped beer all over you? Or does it smell like it’s just some shirt discarded by my whore of a wife while she was fucking some nameless fuck in the backseat of her car?”

“Christopher…”

“No.” He snarls the word, reaching out and grabbing her around the neck, forcing her back against the linen closet. “You little cunt, you don’t get to talk yourself out of this. You brought this on yourself, Gail. Just like you always do.”

“I didn’t do anything, Christopher.” 

“That’s what you say every time, though, isn’t it? That you’re innocent. That you’re always good, always faithful. I almost believe you, Gail. Almost believe you because how could such a pretty mouth tell such ugly lies?” He kisses her, though there’s nothing kiss-like about it. Instead it’s teeth and anger cutting into her lips, forcing her mouth open so he can keep her from breathing, from screaming. “Maybe that’s the problem, huh?” He’s breathing hard when he pulls back and she can taste blood in the corner of her mouth as her tongue snakes out and runs over her lower lip. “Maybe it’s your mouth that’s the lie.”

She jerks her head back as he leans in, striking like a snake and biting hard at her lower lip. She cries out, her eyes wide as he pulls back, grinning widely, blood on his teeth. She can feel the swelling and taste the coppery tang on her tongue. 

“Not so pretty now, Gail, my girl.”

“Christopher…please.”

“Is that what you said to him, Gail?” He tightens his fingers on her neck, letting them dig into her flesh as he pulls her closer then shoves her away, sending her stumbling toward the bedroom. “Please? Please fuck me? Please save me? Did he listen to you, Gail? Did he listen to your tale of woe? Did he believe that your sweet, decorated police officer husband was a big, bad man?” He unfastens his belt and tugs it free of his jeans and she watches with a kind of detached calm. “Or did he just hear you begging and take what you were offering. Because he’s not fucking here, is he, Gail? Another dumb fuck who is happy to take what you’re offering but doesn’t hear a word you say unless you’re saying ‘more’.”

She shakes her head and takes a step back, her foot hitting the hope chest at the end of the bed, forcing her to sit down hard.

“You gonna say more for me, Gail?” He grasps the belt just below the buckle and presses the cold metal against her face. “You going to beg me?”

“Christopher. Don’t do this.”

“Don’t worry, baby.” He grasps the buckle with his other hand and slides the belt against his palm, wrapping the leather end of it around his fist. “I won’t leave a mark. At least not anywhere it’ll show.”

“Christopher. Please.”

“There you go, my Gail. My girl. You know I love it when you beg.”

**

“Seriously, Evans, did you even look at a fucking map when you booked this tour?” Dane takes a drink from the bottle then passes it to Layla, bypassing the pouting blonde in his lap. 

John flips him off then points to the map. Tension still hovers between them, nothing quite right yet, but getting better. “We have a stop in Womelsdorf, West Virginia and then we head to Birmingham.”

Ignoring him, Dane brings the blond closer and kisses her, sharing his pull from the bottle. She giggles halfway through, whiskey running down her chin that Dane has to chase with his tongue. After catching a particularly errant drop against her neck, Dane smiles like a cat. “What happened to all the P cities? You run out already?”

“Fuck you, Roberts. How easy do you think it is to find towns that want a half-ass cover band?”

“Can’t be that hard. You try Jersey? They like shit music in Jersey.” Dane grins wider as John flips him off again. “Awww. C’mon, Romeo. I’m not picking on Springsteen. I’m picking on New Jersey. Everyone does that.”

“I liked you better when you were the love ‘em and leave ‘em type, Dane. You’re a real bastard when you’re the one that gets left.” John gets to his feet, taking the map with him. “I’m going to go talk to the owner.” 

Layla sighs as John leaves, shaking her head and giving Dane a look. “You want to tell me why you keep pushing at Johnny?”

“Because he doesn’t push back.” Dane eases the blonde off his lap and pats her ass. “Go get us another bottle, darlin’. Put it on the tab.”

“Your tab’s about to exceed what you’re getting paid for this gig,” she informs him. “Especially if you don’t get your ass up on stage again.”

“Don’t you worry about my ass, sweetheart.” He smiles at her, watching her blush. “It’s bound to be in good hands soon, yeah? Soon as you’re off?” She blushes more and heads toward the bar. “Guess we owe ‘em another set.”

“You could call her.”

“Layla, I know we’ve been friends since the day I got my first tattoo, but that doesn’t give you a single right to say a fucking thing about the women in my life.”

“I was the woman in your life for a damn long time, Daniel Roberts.” The threat of more hangs in the air and he glares at her. They have a history, the two of them, one that involves knowing each other’s histories, and trusting her implicitly is about the only thing that keeps him from having her killed in her sleep. “So if anyone has a right to say something here, it’s me. Call her.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not anymore, Roberts.” She gets to her feet, taking the last pull from the bottle. “Now, before you give your ass over to Brandi’s capable hands, how about you get it up on stage and pretend you know how to play a guitar.”

“You know how to hurt a guy, Lay.”

“Dane, I’ve never once hurt you that you haven’t enjoyed it.” She smiles at him and tosses him the empty bottle. “Let’s not change that, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gets to his feet, replacing the bottle on Brandi’s tray with the empty one and carrying the full one up on stage with him. The crowd’s loud and ready for music, and he tries to get into it as he sets the bottle down next to the stool with Layla’s water. He can feel John’s eyes on him, worried in the way that John pretends he never is, and ignores it, not looking over at him. Instead, he lets his eyes wander across the people already dancing as Rat starts strumming the bass. 

“Get your head out of your ass and into the game, Roberts,” Layla warns him with her typical smile as she joins in, her guitar dancing around the sudden shiver of cymbals. “Brandi’ll like you better that way.”

**

He’s three sheets to the wind and stumbling through the bar with a girl under each arm and John’s frown at his back. The set’s done and they don’t leave town for another day, so all he cares about is more beer, more whiskey and whatever he can get from the pretty girls currently keeping him upright. Everything else is lost in a pleasant haze of everything he’s had to drink and whatever it was Rat was smoking in the bathroom. 

Which is why it takes a few minutes to realize they’re not moving anymore.

“Hey, baby.” He turns to the girl on his left and blinks at her a couple of times, waiting for her to go back to just one instead of the swimming vision of three of her he’s seeing. “Why’d we stop?”

“Road block.” She giggles and he laughs, undermining the sound like the bass rolled under Layla’s guitar. He turns his head to check the other side, stopping somewhere in the middle when he sees who’s blocking their way.

“Angel.”

He untangles his arm from around the blonde, Brandi - Because I go down smooth, not Because after you taste me, you can’t get rid of the burn, like John said – and reaches out to her. His fingers run along her hair, stopping short where it does. 

“Angel?”

“You’re busy.” She nods and manages a tight smile. “Don’t let me get in your way.” She takes a step back and to the side, clearing the path in front of them. Dane watches her, his eyes narrowed, his mind spinning and trying to figure out what’s bothering him about her being here, beside the fact that she’s married. 

“What’s the matter with your hair?” Her hand goes up instinctively, smoothing the short strands. It’s not styled, not even straight. It looks like someone just took scissors to it and hacked it off. He reaches out again, following the path her hand took. “Who did this?”

“You don’t like it? I just wanted a change.” Her voice shakes as he steps closer, both of the other girls forgotten. “Something new.”

“Bullshit.” His fingers thread through her hair and he bends closer to look at it, feel the ragged edges with his thumb. “Who did this, Angel?”

“How can you call me that?” Her voice breaks and she averts her eyes, turning her head to the side. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Gail.” His voice is low and he can see the shiver run through her. He glances back and notices John still looking at him, worry dark in his eyes. “Let’s go somewhere.”

“No. You’re having a good time. Drinking with your new friends and I shouldn’t have come.”

“You drove eight fucking hours, Angel. We’re gonna talk. Come on. The van’s outside.”

“I don’t want…” She winces as he gathers her against him, his hand settled on her waist. He pulls back in surprise, easing his hand away from her, but staying close, not moving from her side. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“We’re going to the van.” He catches her hand, guiding her out of the club and into the cool night. She shivers beside him, and every protective instinct he has fires into overdrive, though he keeps his hands to himself, afraid to touch her. The van’s locked and he curses under his breath. “Stay here. Let me just run and get the keys from John.”

“No. I…I shouldn’t have come. I just…” She looks up at him and reaches out, touching his face, tracing his lower lip so softly. “Say it again? Call me Angel?”

Dane swallows hard and then curses under his breath, leaning in to kiss her as softly as she’d touched him. She makes a small noise and it takes all his self control not to press against her, to hold her against the van and feel every inch of her. Only the memory of her wincing at his touch keeps his hands on the side of the van on either side of her head and not on her. “Angel.”

Gail shivers again, her hands settling on his hips, pulling him closer. “Dane.”

He kisses her again, his hand coming off the van to cup her cheek. The short wisps of her hair brush against the back of his hand. “Tell me.”

“I can’t.” She shakes her head and slips out of the circle of his arms, wrapping her arms around herself. He watches her carefully and she stiffens, his eyes too knowing, too seeing.

“Come on.” He takes her hand, easing it away form her body and then enveloping it in his. He guides her away from the van, sliding his free hand to the small of her back.

“Don’t.” Her voice shakes and she steps away form his touch. Dane bunches his hand into a fist and shoves it in the pocket of his jeans to keep from touching her. They walk down the street toward the hotel. It’s quiet, the loud music from the bar fading in the distance. There’s a chill in the air and she shivers. He makes a low noise of frustration and shoves his hands deeper in his pockets.

When they reach the room, he unlocks the door and opens it, reaching past her to snap on the light. She moves by him, careful not to touch him. He follows her in, slipping the do not disturb sign on the doorknob. Hopefully John and Layla are still on good terms, or he’s going to have hell to pay come morning. Gail sits on the edge of the chair, rubbing her hands along the edge of the table. Dane keeps his distance, sitting across the room from her on one of the beds.

“You want to talk about it?”

“No.” She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, stopping short when it does. “I’ve been married for six years. Wet met when I was working on a story. I’m a…I was a freelance journalist. We dated for a year then got married. It was good.”

“And then?”

She smirks and then sighs again. “There was some…stuff…at the precinct where he worked. Stuff that…that I didn’t find out about until later. It was…he felt it was best that we move. So we did.” She shifts and drops her hands between her legs, staring down at them, at her ring. “To Poughkeepsie. Christopher grew up there, knew lots of people, was well liked. More importantly, I think, I didn’t know anyone.”

Dane nods and his nails dig into the bedspread, the mustard gold sateen tight in his grip. She looks away again, not quite meeting his eyes.

“It started small. He’d hold on too long, squeeze too tight. Blurt out something degrading after a nice evening. Blame me when little things went wrong. It was annoying at first, but I wasn’t afraid. I made excuses for him, to myself and anyone who might have overheard. Job stress. New town. New marriage. New responsibilities.”

“When did it change?”

She looks up, as if surprised by the question. “What?”

“You’re sitting there like you’re afraid to move. I touched you and you pulled away in pain. You might not have been afraid, but you are now. When did it change?”

She nods and continues, averting her eyes again. “There was a big bust. Christopher was in the middle of it. That coupled with…the other things…and, well, there was a dinner with the mayor. Quite an honor, you know?” She swallows hard and shakes her head. “About halfway through I got a page. A source of mine came through with a break in a big story. I made my excuses and left.”

After a few minutes of silence, Dane gets to his feet. “You want some water?”

“Do you have anything stronger?”

“No. But John does.” He goes over to John’s bag and pulls out a bottle of tequila. “It’s pure rotgut. John has shit taste in booze.”

“It’s fine.” He nods and pours them each a glass. She takes hers with shaking hands. “Thanks.”

He sits again, closer this time, at the end of the bed closest to her. He takes a drink and grimaces and she laughs. He smiles at her in return and lifts up his glass in a toast. She smiles for a moment then takes a sip of her own. 

“Oh, God. This is horrible. How can you stay friends with him?”

“I feel sorry for the poor bastard. No taste at all. But don’t tell Layla I said so. She might take offense.”

Her smile fades and she bows her head. “You guys are good friends.”

“The best.”

He can hear the envy in her voice. “I don’t have any friends. That’s part of it. There’s Carrie, I suppose, but her husband is a cop.”

Dane takes another drink. “What happened the night of the dinner?”

“Nothing. Nothing that night. I got home early the next morning. I’d done my interview and filed my story. I was exhausted and flying, you know? So hyped on the story.” She drains her glass and sets it on the table. “He was sitting in the living room when I got home. I started telling him everything – the interview, the story. I probably went on for ten or fifteen minutes before I realized he hadn’t made a sound.”

Dane gets up and pours her another drink. She takes the glass and stares down into the amber liquid. “I walked up to him. Said his name. Touched his forehead.” She takes a long drink. “He grabbed my wrist, pinned me to the ground, and…”

“Did you go to the hospital?”

“You never think it’ll be you, you know? You always think you’re smarter than that. You’d get away. You’d get help. But sometimes there’s nowhere to go. No one will believe you. And everywhere you run, he finds you.”

“How badly has he hurt you, Angel?”

“He’s always careful. Never anywhere that shows. Never anything bad enough for a trip to the ER. Never anything that could count as evidence.” She sets her glass down and stares at her hands again. He watches her, the nervous movements of her fingers, the constant, slow spin of her wedding ring.

“Gail?”

“He figured out that I cheated on him. No.” She shakes her heat at the statement, at the soft sound he makes. “He always accuses me after he’s been away. Always accuses me when he’s been right there. Flirting. Cheating. I’ve never cheated on him before. Not that it’s mattered to him, but…But you.”

“Gail.” Dane gets off the bed and kneels down in front of her. 

She looks down at him and reaches out to trail her fingers lightly along his brow and down to his cheek, his lips. She smiles. “You.”

“Angel.” Dane catches her hand and presses his lips to her palm. “You can leave him. You have somewhere you can go now. You have someone who believes you.”

“I just needed to explain. I needed you to know that you weren’t just a guy, you know? I needed you to know that.”

“I do, Angel. I do know.” He leans in and kisses her. “We’ll go to your house, get your things. You can finish out the tour with us, then we’ll get you settled.”

“Why would you help me? We barely know each other.”

“I’ll help you because I would help anyone in your situation.” He kisses her again, more slowly this time, his hand curving around her cheek. His heart is lodged somewhere in his throat, beating completely out of time. “But I’m helping you because, as crazy as it seems, Angel, I think I’m in love with you.”

**

She wakes up alone in bed. She runs her hand over the bare sheet where Dane had been, closing her eyes and pressing her head to the pillow. 

The bed shifts as he settles on the bed behind her. His fingers trace along her spine, carefully avoiding the bruises marring her skin. “You’re so beautiful, Angel.”

“I’m not beautiful,” she murmurs softly, the sound muted by the pillow.

“You are to me.” He lies behind her and wraps his arm around her, pulling her body flush against his. “Where is he?”

She stiffens and shakes her head. “In D.C. again. We’re moving there.”

“He’s moving there. You’re coming with me.” He strokes her hair and kisses her shoulder. “You’re not going back to him.”

“He’s my husband, Dane.”

“He’s abusing you, Angel. To me that means he forfeits all rights. Love, honor and obey don’t give him the right to hurt you, to treat you like that.” His hand slides down her arm to her hip. “He should cherish you, Gail. That’s in the vows.”

“He does love me.”

“No.” She can feel him shake his head as he kisses her neck. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t let him hurt you. Not again. Never again.”

“You have a hero complex, you know that?” She means the comment as a joke, but she can feel his frown against her skin. His hand leaves her hip, and she’s afraid for a moment that she’s pushed him too far. 

“Did he cut your hair?”

“Dane.”

“He can’t love you. The people who love you don’t do this. They don’t, Gail.”

She nods slowly, closing her eyes and feeling his breath against her. “I know. But that means that I made a horrible mistake.”

“It means you were young. And trust me, we all make mistakes, but you don’t have to let those mistakes ruin the rest of your life.” He trails his fingers down her neck, his voice as soft as his touch. “We’ll take your car, get your things and then load everything up. Anything that doesn’t fit goes in the van.”

“Bring everyone into it. All your friends.” She sighs. “I don’t want to do that.”

“They’ll help. They’ll want to help.” He turns her head and kisses her softly. “Let us help, Angel. Please.”

She turns to face him, his serious gaze darkening his expression. “I’m scared, Dane.”

“Don’t be. I won’t let him hurt you. Won’t let him touch you.” He traces her lower lip. “No one touches you but me.”

“Possessive already?” She tries to smile. “Do I get to say the same thing when it comes to blonde bimbos from bar gigs?”

“Mm-hmm.” He laughs and kisses her, easing over her. “Shall we start now?”

“Exclusive.” She laughs as well, stealing a kiss of her own as he settles easily between her legs. “And what would John and Layla say about that?”

His touch is gentle as he explores her, careful of the bruises and marks that mottle her skin. “Don’t worry. We don’t always share.”

She laughs, eyes widening with surprise. “I was thinking more along the lines of them mocking you.”

“Like I said, Angel, don’t worry.” He smiles wickedly, his fingers easing between them, inside her. “John and Layla are sure to come through both ways.”

**

She can hear the silence on the other side of the hotel room door, which doesn’t actually sound encouraging or anything other than silent. The low rumble of Dane’s voice had stopped a few moments before, and she’d yet to hear a word from Layla or John. She’s not sure what she expected, except she expected something - most likely incredulous laughter or at least a shout of ‘Are you fucking crazy?’.

She sits on the end of the bed, wondering if she should have left in the middle of the night while Dane was sleeping. It wouldn’t have been easy with his arm warm and heavy around her and the heat of his body at her back, but she thinks she could have managed it. Should have managed it.

The door opens and she looks up. Layla closes the door behind her, shutting off whatever it is John’s about to say. She leans against it, sizing Gail up. It makes Gail want to squirm under the gaze, but she holds her ground. “Dane’s asked us to help you.”

Gail nods and reaches up to tuck her hair back behind her ears, a nervous gesture that’s lost its impact now that she doesn’t have any hair. “I know.”

“He says this husband of yours is abusive.” She walks in the room and grabs the chair by the table, turning it around and straddling it. The habit is so very Dane-like she can’t help but smile. “That true?”

“Yes. But I’m curious as to why you think Dane would lie.”

“I don’t think he’d lie. But I think he’d see bruises that could come from other stuff and make up stories to get what he wants. He fancies himself in love with you.”

“So he’s said.”

“You love him?”

Gail ducks her head and exhales. “We’ve known each other all of a week. My husband beat me and I’ve slept with Dane more times in the last week than I’ve had sex in the last year. I don’t know that I trust anything I’m feeling right now.”

Layla exhales loudly, something between a sigh and a grunt. “Dane doesn’t fall in love. Not his thing. He loves women. He loves being on the road. He doesn’t form attachments.”

“He’s attached to you and John.”

“Yeah, well, we go way back.” Layla bites her lip and narrows her eyes, watching Gail like she’s under a microscope. “Look, I’ll be honest here. I like you. You seem like a decent gal. But Dane…”

“Dane doesn’t do this. You said so.” Gail looks back at Layla, holding her gaze. “So maybe the fact that he has means something.”

“Maybe.” Layla stands up and tucks the chair back under the table. “If you hurt him, I will hunt you down and make you wish you were back with your husband, because whatever he’s done to you will seem like a fucking cake walk compared to what I’ll do.”

Gail nods. “I wouldn’t expect any less.” She stands up as well, facing off against Layla still. “I know you don’t want to help me.”

“No. I don’t. I think that if you wanted out, you’d get the fuck out long before some big, strong man came to your rescue. I think you’re trading one trouble for a different kind, and I think you’re going to hurt someone I love very much. But John and Dane each have a fucked up sense of chivalry that’s probably going to end up getting them both killed, and the only damn thing I can do about it is drive the getaway car.”

Gail holds her breath for a moment as Layla walks to the door, exhaling it slowly just before she turns the knob. “Can I ask you a question?” Layla pauses but doesn’t turn around. “What would you have done if I’d said I did love him?”

Layla looks back, an arch, knowing smile on her face. “I’d have done the same thing I’m doing now. Only I’d have known you were a liar and had a little bit longer to plot my revenge.”

**

Dane hums along with the radio, tapping his knee as Gail drives. His eyes seem closed, but she can feel his gaze on her every now and then, and tries not to smile too much. It’s easier to concentrate on him than on the miles being eaten up by the car, than the thought of where they’re going.

“You’re as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” Dane’s voice is low and rumbles through her. He’s got a half-smile that makes him look like a mischievous child and she can’t help smiling back.

“Are you really from Texas, or have you just adopted the shtick?”

“Texas born and bred, ma’am.” He tips an imaginary cowboy hat. “Shit-kicker boots and tippin’ cows like a good ole boy. Grew up on country music until the devil from the city came and taught me how to appreciate the whine of an electric guitar.”

“Was that Layla? The devil?”

“Mmm. Nah. Layla came shortly thereafter, but she wasn’t the one who wooed me from my farm boy days.”

“You were never a farm boy.” Gail laughs and reaches over, brushing the back of her fingers down his cheek. “I see big city written on you. Probably went to boarding school in Connecticut or something.”

Dane catches her hand and kisses it, still smiling, though his eyes are shadowed. “Darlin’, you’ve offended this Texas boy somethin’ fierce.”

“Oh, I do apologize.” She laughs and looks away from him, unwilling to ask about the shadows, unsure she really has the right. She has enough of her own to banish before delving into his. “A good ole boy it is.”

They ride in silence for the rest of the ride, save for Dane’s humming. He controls the radio, tuning in and out of stations until he finds songs he likes or knows. It would normally drive her crazy, but he seems to have a magic touch with it, always finding a song, bypassing DJs and news and everything else except the music.

“How did you meet Layla?”

“She was at a tattoo parlor at three in the morning. I walked in, too big for my britches and swaggering like I was all cock and balls and shit for brains. She took one look at me, laughed and said if I could sit through the damn inking without making a sound, she’d buy me breakfast. I asked her what would happen if I couldn’t. She grinned at me and said she’d think of something.”

“Did she?”

“What?”

“Think of something.”

”Hey!” He looks hurt and offended, but his eyes are laughing. “What makes you think she won the bet?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Dane.”

“Hmph. I’ll have you know she bought me breakfast.” He holds the offended look for a moment then breaks into a grin. “Eventually.”

Gail laughs and shakes her head, letting them fall back into a companionable silence. It’s strange not to feel an undercurrent of tension in the car, but there’s nothing there other than Dane’s soft humming. Occasionally he’ll look over at her and smile as he hums, and she’s careful not to listen too closely to the words on the radio, preferring to focus on the rumble of his breath.

Poughkeepsie comes all too soon, and she parks the car along the sidewalk. She glances around for the van, surprised when Dane shakes his head. “Layla took the van to the restaurant up the street. Figured it’s safer to have a little bit of a back up plan.”

“Have you extracted other abused women before?”

His face closes up and Gail blinks in surprise. His jaw tenses and then relaxes into his easy grin, though it’s tight around the corners, not quite real. “Nope. Never extracted a one.”

It’s a story she wants, one she wants to hear him tell her late at night. She exhales and frees the key from the ignition. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because no one should be hurt for loving someone. Even cheating on someone doesn’t give them the right to inflict physical harm. And I’ve got that nasty problem where I’m falling in love with you.”

“I think you’re projecting.”

“No. Layla thinks I’m projecting. You just think I’m damn hot.” He gets out of the car and moves around to open her door. She swallows hard, wanting to believe him about everything – about love, about marriage, about what she deserves. She’s just not sure she can. “C’mon, Angel. Pack up a few things and hit the road. You’re going to love Womelsdorf.”

She laughs and gets out of the car. “How drunk was John when he booked this tour?”

“Let’s just say he doesn’t actually remember booking the tour.” He puts his hand against the small of her back, strength and warmth suffusing her. She wants to lean into him, but she knows the risk of that. “You have a lot of stuff you want to bring?”

“No. Just a few things. Clothes and a couple things that are sentimental.” She unlocks the house and walks inside, shivering a little. The heat’s off and the rooms are dark, and she wonders briefly how Christopher will feel when he comes home. Will he know right away? Will he care? “I’ll be in the bedroom.”

Dane nods and moves over to the mantel, trailing his fingers over it as he starts a circuit of the room. She smiles at him for a moment, watching him shove his hands in his pockets before she disappears into the bedroom, grabbing a bag from beneath the bed and opening it. 

There’s a stack of money inside, wrapped safely in a plastic bag, saved up for just this moment. It was a care package from her mother along with the few photos and a letter, explaining how Christopher’s great achievement in his old precinct was finding out Gail’s father was withholding evidence, keeping cash. He got her dad under investigation and busted, but they never got this. It’s dirty money, but it’s more than enough to live on for a while. She tries to put her parents out of her mind, unsure she wants to think about them, about what who they are says about her.

The rest of the bag is already packed save for a few small things, and she gathers them quickly. Her toiletries and a few books get shoved on top before she opens the hope chest for the photo album and the t-shirt. They’re missing and her heart stops in her chest. She grabs the bag, ready to grab Dane and leave.

Christopher smiles at her as she stops in the doorway. “Would you look at this, Gail.” He cocks the service issue revolver he has pointed at Dane’s chest. “We’ve got an intruder.”

“Christopher, put the gun down.”

“What do you think? Breaking and entering? Hurting my wife? Cuckolding? You think cuckolding’s a punishable crime in New York? Bet it’s on the books somewhere.”

“Christopher, he didn’t do anything. I’m using him. Just using him to get a ride. Get away. The person you’re angry with is me.”

“You’re right about the last bit, Gail.” He turns the gun on her for a moment, training it back on Dane when he makes a low sound in his throat. Gail looks at Dane urgently, begging him silently to be quiet, to understand. “I’m angry as hell at you. But you’re my wife. Till death do us part.” 

“That’s gonna come sooner than you think, asshole.” Dane growls the words, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. 

Christopher takes a step closer, the gun never wavering from Dane’s chest. “For one of us, that’s for damn sure.”

“You sadistic fuck.” Dane steps closer as well, and Gail can’t do anything but watch. Dane’s got a good half a foot in height and at least fifty pounds on Christopher, but Christopher has the advantage of the gun, the muzzle far too close to Dane’s chest. 

“Stop it. Both of you. Please.” She moves into the room, ignoring Dane’s warning look She just wants this to stop. “Christopher, please. Let him go. I’ll stay, just let him go.”

“No.” Dane states flatly, his eyes never wavering from Christopher’s. “I’m not leaving you here with him so he can hurt you again. I won’t, Angel.”

“Angel?” Christopher laughs, taking a step back. “Angel? Have you met the woman you’re fucking? She’s a bitch. Cold-hearted and ball-busting. Did she tell you how she started dating me so she could get the goods on one of my friends? Journalistic ethics didn’t keep her out of my bed.”

“So why’d you marry her then?”

Christopher’s lips curl into a cruel smile. “You’ve fucked her. She’s a demon in the sack, isn’t she? Mouth like a fucking porn star and the tightest cunt you’ve ever had, no matter how many times you fuck her. Besides, my best friend is rotting in jail thanks to her. She made his life hell. I’m just returning the favor.”

“She’s your wife.”

“Yeah, well he’s my fucking brother, man.” Christopher points the gun at her, smirking as the statement seems to bring Dane up cold. “Yeah. You’ve got one, right? Buddy who’s like blood? That’s who she fucked over. That’s who she used me to screw. What’s the matter, Gail? Didn’t tell him the whole truth? Thought you reporters were supposed to be objective.”

“And I thought police officers were supposed to uphold the law.” Dane’s voice is low and bitter, edged with emotions Gail’s not sure she wants to identify. “Can I tell you a secret, buddy?”

Christopher holds the gun steady, smiling at Gail. “We’re fucking the same woman. Don’t see why not.”

“I fucking hate cops.” Dane closes the distance in two strides, his hand locking around Christopher’s wrist and jerking the gun upwards. A shot goes off and Gail screams, ducking down as the picture behind her shatters into a shower of glass. She rushes forward, the urge to run warring with the urge to stop them, to protect…someone. 

“Dane. Christopher. Stop.” 

She’s crying hot tears that feel like they burn her cheeks. Christopher brings the butt of the gun down hard at the juncture of Dane’s neck and shoulder and Dane makes a sound. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over her. She cries out as they collide, pain singing along the bruises hidden beneath her clothes. Dane makes another noise, sympathetic or apologetic. She can’t tell the difference in the moment before the gun roars again and deafens her.

She takes a breath and exhales, her whole body shaking with it. Dane is leaning over her, his hands stained red. She watches him with unfocused eyes, his mouth moving though she can’t hear the words. It’s almost like his humming in the car, there but not quite. She opens her mouth to say something, gasping instead when she sees Christopher stand, shock on his face and in his eyes. 

Everything happens in altered time – slowed down one moment then sped up the next. She sees the blood and she’s relatively certain that it’s hers. She touches it, sticky and wet against her fingers and looks up at Dane. There’s something tortured in his eyes, something small and lost and primal and she knows she’ll never know what it is now, never hear his story.

The second shot penetrates the fog surrounding her, the fuzz the clogs her ears. She forces herself to sit up, grabbing the edge of the couch to pull herself into a sitting position. Pain echoes through her and she coughs, the taste of blood blocking out every other sense. She can’t look away from Dane, but she follows his own gaze down to his hand. Dane’s holding the gun. Dane’s holding the gun and Christopher’s not. 

It takes an endless amount of time to turn her head and find Christopher. She expects fury at the end of a belt, a torrent of words that hurt nearly as much. Instead, he’s a lifeless heap slumped against the wall and sliding down, red trail in his wake. He looks surprised more than anything, and she wants to laugh, but laughing hurts too much.

“…gel?” Dane’s voice swims in her head as he kneels beside her. The words fade in and out and she can’t quite catch her breath. “Hold on…hospit…n’t worry…” His eyes are a color she can’t quite describe and she reaches up to touch his lips.

“I lied, you know.”

He frowns and shakes his head, but she can’t quite hear anything he says. 

“I do love you.” Her hand closes around the gun beside him and she points it at Christopher’s fallen body. Dane turns to look, to follow the path of whatever bullet she might fire. He’s wrong though, about the trajectory. 

Her father was a dirty cop. 

He taught her everything there is to know about eating your gun.

**

Dane doesn’t remember leaving the house or stumbling down the road to the restaurant. He just recognizes the van and John standing beside it, smoking a cigarette. A circle of lamplight forms a golden circle around him, like a distorted halo. “Tell me you have some of that tequila on you still.”

“You and your girlfriend drank it all,” John informs him, no animosity in his voice. He does look up though as Dane steps out of the shadows. “Speaking of, where is your…is that blood?”

“We need to get the hell out of Dodge, Johnny.”

“I didn’t book a single date in Dodge just for this purpose, Roberts.” He pushes off the van and stubs his cigarette out on the ground. “Get in the van. I’ll get the band.” He shakes his head. “I hate McCartney, you know.”

“Yeah, well, trust me, I’d rather emulate some of his earlier work.” Dane rubs his hands over his arms, dried blood cracking on his knuckles. “Hurry.”

“Get in the van, Dane. We’ll be on the road in five.”

**

John’s better than his word as Layla turns the engine over in four minutes. John forces Rat into the passenger seat and curls up on the floor in the back with Dane. They don’t move for a long time other than whatever bumps and rolls they get from the rhythm of the road. He can’t quite hear right yet and there’s a ringing in his ears he doesn’t think will ever fade. John holds his hands to keep him from doing anything else with them and Dane’s grateful for the heat and the solidarity. That thought sends a shiver through him and John whispers something he doesn’t hear, though he feels the soft exhalation of air.

They stop somewhere five hours later and Layla gets the rooms. She tosses Rat and Jackson their key and tucks one in her pocket, handing the other to John. Dane can see the worry in her eyes, and waits for her to change her mind and steal him away from John or move in to the room with them. Instead she just stares for a moment then turns, leaving them to make their way alone.

John sits him on the bed then goes into the bathroom and turns on the shower. He comes to the door and looks at Dane, eyes as worried as Layla’s. “I’m not going to ask.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That’s why I’m not going to ask. But you’ve got blood on you, so take a shower.” He leaves the doorway and snags Dane’s duffel, tugging fresh clothes out of it. “And don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be sitting right there.” He waves in the direction of the bathroom and the toilet as Dane lumbers to his feet and strips out of his clothes. His shirt is stiff with blood and he stares at it for a moment before tossing it toward the trash. “Jesus, you’re an idiot.” John grabs it and wraps it up in the plastic bag from the ice bucket. “You want to just leave a fucking trail?”

“Right. Right.” He can’t think. Can’t breathe. He strips down the rest of the way and goes into the bathroom, groaning a little as he steps under the hard, hot spray. John’s as good as his word, and Dane can see his shadow sitting beside the shower, keeping half an eye on Dane and on the temperature gauge. Dane doesn’t bother to touch it, just stands there and accepts the punishment John set for him until the water runs clear. He looks at his hands and they’re clean, no blood beneath his nails, around the nail beds. It’s as if it never happened.

Dane switches off the water and reaches for the towel. John hands it to him and then leaves him, moving into the main room. He sits on the bed then lays back, his eyes closed. Dane knows the tactics by heart, and it hurts to look at John when he comes into the room, hurts to think about brothers, to have anything in common with Christopher at all. 

“You have a sister, right?” Dane asks quietly.

“Yeah.” John doesn’t open his eyes, but Dane can tell the question caught him off guard. “Elizabeth. You?”

“Megan.”

“Yeah?” John nods and cracks an eye. “Brother?”

“Nope. You?”

“No. Had a friend who was the closest thing to it, once upon a time. And you.” John tilts his head. His voice is soft enough not to hear if Dane wants. “What happened, Dane?”

“A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life,” he says softly. He almost laughs at John’s frown until everything flashes again behind his eyes. “He shot her.”

John makes a sound and starts to sit up, but Dane shakes his head and moves over to the bed instead, stretching out next to John. They stay like that for a moment before Dane turns on his side and John wraps his arms around him, cocooning Dane with his body. 

“He shot her, and then I shot him.”

“Dane.” John’s voice is breathless and frightened, though Dane suspects he’s been thinking it all along. “Did you…”

“And then she shot herself. So they’ll rule it a murder-suicide and she’ll be vilified in the press. And then the abuse will come out and they’ll stop canonizing him, but they won’t actually make an effort to clear her name. And then it’ll be forgotten.”

“Not by everyone.”

“No,” Dane agrees softly. “Not by everyone.” He lifts his head and looks up at John. “You should call the cops, you know. I killed a man in cold blood.”

“Sounds to me like you did the world a favor.” He strokes Dane’s short hair, fingers rubbing against his scalp. “Abused his wife. Shot his wife.”

“She’d sent his best friend to jail.” 

“Was his best friend guilty?”

Dane frowns and yawns, exhaustion creeping up around him like a blanket. “Didn’t think to ask that bit.”

“Yeah, well, if he didn’t offer the information, I’d guess the answer was yes.” John moves closer, cradling their body heat between them. Dane shivers, uncertain he’ll ever be warm again. 

“I still shot a man, Romeo.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got no proof of that, Roberts. So stop bragging.” John kisses Dane’s temple softly and closes his eyes. “Always have to be the big man in the band.”

“Thought the big man played sax.”

“He does.” He can feel John’s smile against his skin. “But he sort of belongs to Springsteen. Guess I’ll take you if you’re all I can get.”

Dane smiles in return, closing his eyes and letting go of everything except John. “Our secret.”

“Your secret, Dane.” John assures him, holding tighter still. “I’ll just help carry it for a while.”


End file.
